


freaky friday

by hardlythewiser (sequinedfairy)



Category: Men's Basketball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:18:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22200493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequinedfairy/pseuds/hardlythewiser
Summary: His chest is covered in tattoos, running down past where the sheets are draped over his hips. It’s not his chest, the skin darker, the black ink spreading up the six-pack, longer than Russ has ever been.
Relationships: Kevin Durant/Russell Westbrook
Comments: 30
Kudos: 63





	freaky friday

**Author's Note:**

> set right after the 2017-2018 season (kd’s second year with the warriors)

Russ stretches one arm up as he wakes up, feeling exhausted. The light’s shining into his eyes and he opens them, doesn’t understand why his blackout shades aren’t down.

It’s not his bed. The sheets are a tragic grey; the wall is too-harsh white. Did he move to a guest room in the middle of the night? His interior decorator would never choose such boring shit. Where the fuck is he? Why does his head hurt like he spent all of yesterday chugging sugary crap?

He sits up, hands sinking into the too-soft bed, and looks down.

His chest is covered in tattoos, running down past where the sheets are draped over his hips. It’s not his chest, the skin darker, the black ink spreading up the six-pack, longer than Russ has ever been.

The lines resolve into a familiar pattern, and Russ pictures, involuntarily, the last time he saw this chest. 

Russ was lounging on the bed in the morning light, still half asleep. Kevin came out of the bathroom, a big white fluffy towel Russ had made him buy wrapped around his waist. He walked past the bed on his way to the dresser, and Russ had grabbed his side, pulled him in for a kiss. Kevin had half-laughed, come easily, and Russ had pushed down the towel, was rolling his dick into the hollow of Kevin’s hip when Kevin had pulled away, protesting, “I’ve got a flight to catch.”

But Kevin’s hands were sliding up and down Russ’ side, skating over his ass, so Russ had just rolled his hips a little more languorously and said, “It’s a private jet. They’ll wait.”

Kevin has huffed a laugh, but when Russ had tried to slide his hand to Kevin’s dick, Kevin had pulled away for real, a final kiss before he stood up. Russ had looked at him, half-hard dick, miles of lean muscled skin, weird knobbly knees, and felt a sense of peace he’d never felt before.

And then Kevin had pulled on his clothes, grabbed his bag, and flew to the Hamptons. 

***

Kevin’s house is fucking hideous, egregiously so, considering how much money the fucking Warriors give him. His bedroom has a sweeping view of the hills and the bay, all currently covered in fog, but the furniture is all blandly modern, the floor covered in his stupid dirty sweats and fucking towels. Who puts wet towels on a hardwood floor? Russ had stepped out of bed and been immediately confronted with Kevin’s dick, as pretty as ever — of course the jackass still slept naked. He stumbled into Kevin’s giant walk-in closet, smacking his hip on the dresser and wincing. The closet was even worse than his room. Mountains of black clothing covered the floor, with no organization at all, and Russ had to open ten drawers before he found a fucking pair of boxers. As he pulled them on, he caught a glimpse of Kevin — of himself — in the giant mirror, his broad back and the curve of his ass. He had to tear his eyes away, open another set of drawers until he found a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. He’s not gonna touch the piles on the floor. 

Once Kevin’s body was appropriately covered, Russ’ adrenaline receded enough for him to think about what was happening. He’d woken up in Kevin’s body, which meant someone had probably woken up in his body, right? Was it like Freaky Friday? Hopefully he wasn’t like in a coma or something, that would really freak out PG. 

PG. Oh fuck. He’d forgotten about last night — Russ maudlin, half-watching the parade on twitter, a thousand photos of KD’s triumphant smile. He had assumed it would be easier the second time around, but it felt even worse. PG coming over, telling Russ he was staying. How good it felt when PG fucked him, filled, thought-free, for the first time in two years. PG’s handsome face in the moonlight next to him, the twinge of something in Russ’ gut, nostalgia and regret and loss and hope all mixed up. And then PG was going to wake up with —

A phone started ringing, interrupting the train of thought. He has to toss the covers to find it, hidden in the sheets, and when he finds it, the phone says Russ, a picture of Russ laughing at practice, years and years ago. He picks up without letting himself think about that. 

“You deleted my number?” Russ’ voice says as soon as Russ picks up. 

Russ had been holding out hope that it had been like a Secret Santa swapping situation, someone random in Russ’ body, but only one person would be so fucking useless. 

“Of course I did,” Russ says, ice-cold. “Why would I keep it?”

Kevin sputters. Russ rolls his eyes. Still thinks everything revolves around him, that he should be on the Favorites list of someone he hasn’t talked to in two years. 

“Did you have a reason for calling,” Russ asks, cutting him off. 

“Yeah, what the fuck did you do, Russ? Why did I wake up in bed with fucking Paul George the Third?”

“What did I do?” Russ asks, irritated. He pushes away the memory of last night, looking at Paul’s sleeping face and thinking, just for a second, how he wished Kevin had ever wanted that. “I woke up in your fucking emo robot masturbation palace, what the fuck did you do?”

There’s a half-second pause before Kevin huffs out, “Nothing!”

Russ hears a muffled voice call, “Babe? You okay in there?”

Kevin is silent. “Answer him, jackass,” Russ grits out, picturing Kevin huddled in Russ’ bathroom, hiding from PG. 

“Why?” Kevin hisses. 

“Just do it!” 

“Ugh,” Kevin whispers. “Fine,” and then, louder, “uh, yeah.”

“I’m gonna make breakfast,” PG says, cheerfully. “Do you want scrambled eggs?”

Kevin thinks scrambled eggs look like barf. Russ listens with satisfaction as Kevin says, “Sure.” At Russ’ aggrieved sigh, he adds, “Thanks, dude.”

“Wow,” Russ says, after he hears PG’s footsteps pad away. “You should win an Oscar. Great performance.”

“Sorry I’m not very good at pretending to PG’s _ boyfriend,_ Russ. I can’t believe you guys are. I woke up in a _ wet spot _.”

“Good,” Russ says, satisfied. He realizes that PG fucked him last night, so Kevin can almost certainly feel it in Russ’ body, the dull ache of satisfaction that always lingers more when it’s been a while, that PG came inside him. “Just don’t fuck it up, okay? PG’s a really good dude. You don’t have to suck his dick but don’t make him dump me.”

Kevin inhales at the mention of PG’s dick, sharp, then tries to cover it. “Oh my god,” Russ says. “You already sucked his dick. Jesus, Kevin.”

“I did not,” Kevin protests, but Russ can hear the gay panic threading through his voice. 

“Christ,” Russ says. “Well, don’t do it again. Text him that you have food poisoning or something. Just don’t be a freak at him until we fix this.”

“How are we going to fix this?” Kevin says, jumping gratefully onto a lifeboat away from talk of whatever he did with PG’s dick. 

“I’m about to rewatch Freaky Friday,” Russ says. “I’ll keep you updated.”

“I’ll come back to Oakland,” Kevin says. “Probably once we’re together. It’ll. Go back.”

“No,” Russ says, viciously certain. “Just stay where you are. It’ll be easier.”

“See you,” Kevin says, ignoring him, then hangs up. Unbelievable. 

***

After the call, Russ is too antsy to watch a movie, sitting on the couch where Kevin probably fucks groupies after making them watch his highlight reel. He grabs all the car keys in Kevin’s drawer, goes out to his garage, picks the cherry red Porsche. Russ needs a little color or he’ll die, suffocated by Kevin’s stringently heterosexual palette. He’s gotta get some better clothes. 

He drives down from the hills, from the sweeping views of Kevin’s house to grimy, grey downtown Oakland. There’s nothing of the hot soup of an Oklahoma summer, or the burning sunshine of LA: it’s cold and foggy, Russ shivering a little as he locks the car in front of a doughnut shop and crosses the street to the best shit he found while Googling. In the store, hip-hop blasting and completely empty, he pulls all the most avant-garde shit, patterns and weird cuts and something with a lot of tassels only on one side. The clerk clearly recognizes him, but Russ ignores him.

In the dressing room, he pulls on some floral Gucci capris, a white t-shirt, and a pink fluffy jacket. It’s cold as fuck. When he looks in the mirror, ready to take a selfie, his face falls from his anticipatory grin. The outfit, while fly, looks dumb as hell on Kevin. Kevin’s long limbs make the capris all wrong, and the jacket looks like someone’s kid sister put Bratz clothes on a G.I. Joe. He lifts his arms and the shirt rides up, exposing miles of muscled, tattooed stomach Russ is trying to forget about. He deliberately walks out of the tiny dressing room and poses in front of the mirror, hoping the idiot clerk will take the opportunity to get some followers by snapping a pic and posting it on Twitter.

When he can’t stand to look at himself anymore, he yanks off the outfit, trying to avoid looking at Kevin’s body, feeling suffocated by the curtains, the mirror, the smell of Kevin’s body and the way his fucking arms keep hitting the walls. Everything he tries on looks pretty stupid, but he powers through, buys a purple acid-wash denim shirt and jeans, a robe, a sweatshirt with strategically-placed rips across the chest, a button down and tight jeans in his real size to wear when (not if) he gets back in his own body.

On the way back from the shop, Russ stops by In-N-Out, gets a double-double, animal style, extra pickles, fries and a shake. Kevin would never let himself have anything but a few of Russ’ fries, even in the summer, too paranoid about anything that could impact his performance. His kitchen, when Russ had looked before he left the house, had nothing but trainer meals: chicken breast and broccoli and a smoothie packaged together. It was fucking bleak. 

The girl at the pickup window recognizes him and gasps, and Russ just smiles, leaves her a couple thousand dollar tip. Maybe she’ll tweet about it, and someone will write a stupid piece about whether he’s losing his edge. Russ can dream. 

The first bite of burger is incredible, salt and fat and gooey cheese lighting up like fireworks across his tastebuds, and Russ moans a little. It tastes better than In-N-Out has ever tasted in Russ’ body, even better than when he’s high with James, and Russ hopes that the cravings will linger now that Russ has reintroduced flavor back into Kevin’s body. 

He’s standing at the kitchen counter, dipping the last of his fries into his shake when the banging on the door starts. Russ doesn’t react, chewing on his fry, but the banging escalates, and Russ rolls his eyes, reties his new robe, and walks over with his final fry and his milkshake. He opens the door and there’s his body. 

Russ puts the fry in his mouth, sucking the shake off his fingers, and Kevin’s eyes bug out, an expression Russ knows he’s never made. It’s weird looking down at himself, and his heart — Kevin’s heart — is beating faster, his hands itching to reach out. He ignores all the signals Kevin’s body is sending him, pops his fingers out of his mouth.

“I told you not to come,” he says, then looks at Kevin for real. Kevin’s wearing gross warmup sweats and, fuckfuckfuck, that sweatshirt. His sweatshirt. The hoodie he left the first time he slept over, the one Russ would wear with nothing else, sitting at the kitchen table at breakfast until they inevitably ended up fucking again, setting off the smoke alarm and one time almost breaking the couch. The one Russ knew he should get rid of, but that, once a year, some night between his birthday and Christmas, he’d be so lonely and tired and beat down he’d let himself put it on, waking up feeling even shittier. It was tucked in a drawer in the back of his shoe closet; how did Kevin even find it? He’s momentarily distracted from his humiliation by imagining the absolute chaos Kevin must have left in his closet, silk shirts crumpled on the ground and cashmere getting stretched out of shape. 

The flash of anger buoys him enough to narrow his eyes at Kevin, who’s finally got his eyes back in his skull, but is still scowling hideously, probably giving Russ wrinkles. Russ can’t even think about what’s happening to his skincare routine: he’ll just get a facial when he gets back in his body, let Imani take care of it. He wraps his lips around the straw and sucks, watching with satisfaction as Kevin goggles again for a second before he pulls himself together. 

“Is that In-n-Out?” Kevin demands, furious, as though he can’t see the fucking palm tree. He shoves past Russ into the house, and Russ would try to push back, but he catches a whiff of him and all his nerves light up: he has to press himself against the door just to keep from shoving him against the wall. 

“Of course it’s In-n-Out,” Russ says to Kevin’s back. “Why waste a trip to California?”

By the time Russ gathers himself enough to walk into the living room, Kevin is sprawled on the groupie-fucking couch, legs spread wide, presumably so that if any groupies show up unexpectedly they can get right to it. He has a second of remembering Kevin, that one time he kneeled between Russ’ thighs as Russ was on the couch, how he shook and shook after, how he bolted the next morning. Russ scowls. In his body, he remembers this shit once a month, max: in Kevin’s fucking body, it won’t stop popping up, whack-a-mole and he’s losing. 

“At least you did the workout plan taped to the mirror of the gym, right? Interval cardio and mixed strength training?” Kevin says, still not really looking at Russ. 

At Russ’ incredulous laugh, Kevin stares at him. “Seriously? You’re a professional athlete, Russ. You know how quickly you lose muscle mass, how important it is to stick to a training schedule.”

“How are you still this much of a freak after you finally won some rings?” Russ wonders, genuinely fascinated. 

Hurt flashes across Kevin’s face, telegraphed clearly by his wide-open eyes, the way his mouth goes slack, and Russ feels infuriatingly guilty. It’s fucking unbelievable, the way Kevin can be an oblivious dick for so long, but the minute you push back on a sore spot, he looks at you like he’s shocked you’d be so mean. Russ wants to look away, to say sorry, to comfort him, like Russ is the one who dumped someone via text and just won a second championship without them. He keeps his gaze steady on Kevin’s face instead, stomach twisting, no idea whether it’s Russ’ brain or Kevin’s body making him feel so wretched. 

They stare at each other for a long, long moment. Kevin breaks first, looks down at Russ’ black silk robe and demands, “What the fuck is that? You’re making me look—”

“Like a fag?” Russ offers, and Kevin winces. “Oops. My bad. At least I haven’t touched any cocks today, right? That would be_ really _faggy.”

Kevin pushes himself up from the couch, strides over to Russ, and Russ forces himself to keep breathing normally. He’s just a few inches away from Russ when he spits out, “Fuck you,” and Russ, who will never, ever learn, closes the distance between them with a biting kiss. 

Kevin’s mouth opens immediately under him, and when Russ closes his eyes he can forget they’re in mixed up bodies, can just focus on the way Kevin sighs when Russ sucks on his lower lip, the feel of his tongue. Russ grips Kevin’s hip tightly, rubbing at the hollow of his hips, and Kevin grinds into Russ’ thigh. 

It’s frantic and sloppy until a crow caws right outside of Kevin’s window, startling Russ enough to pull away for a second. It’s freaky to look at his own slack mouth, his own bitten lips, and the discomfort is enough to to let him start to move away. Kevin opens his eyes at the lack of contact, grabs Russ’ wrist, scrapes “Wait” out of his throat. 

Russ waits. Kevin takes one shaky deep breath then another. “Maybe it’s like — Snow White?” Kevin manages. At Russ’ raised eyebrow, he sputters, “Like. If we. You know. Maybe it’ll go back.”

Russ’ control is rapidly fraying, the effects of waking up in Kevin’s bed, seeing his body in the mirror, Kevin’s obvious need swirling together into a tornado of desire, ready to touch down and take Russ apart to the foundations. He just nods, pushes Kevin against the wall, and Kevin goes, sighs into his mouth and squirms against him as Russ kisses him again. 

Russ is vicious, sharp bites and a firm hand on Kevin’s hip, pressing him back against the wall as Russ grinds into him. Russ takes full advantage of the few extra inches he has in Kevin’s body, tips Kevin’s head up with a hand around his throat, thumb right under his chin. Kevin gasps, presses himself into Russ’ hand, and Russ squeezes just a hair, careful pressure. Kevin bites his lip against whatever he was about to say, arches his body against Russ until Russ kisses him again, lush despite himself. 

Kevin submits more readily than Russ expected, wrapping his thigh around Russ, little moans as Russ runs his hand up Kevin’s side. He’s not sure why, enjoying it, seeing how far he can push Kevin. Kevin’s eyes are shut, every inch of his body given into feeling, dick hard against Russ’ thigh. 

Carefully, Russ slides his hand from Kevin’s side to back, and then inches downwards. Kevin doesn’t tense up when he hits the small of his back, just makes a little wordless noise, which grows louder as Russ slides down. Russ palms Kevin’s ass and squeezes, half expecting Kevin to shove him away, be on a plane in an hour, but there’s not even a millisecond of a flinch, just an immediate response, Kevin nuzzing into Russ’ neck as he keens forward, liquifying, pressing into Russ’ chest and his grip. 

It hits Russ then, so obvious he can’t believe he didn’t realized it before. In three and a half years, Russ never even got near Kevin’s ass without Kevin tensing up, but it’s not Kevin’s ass. It’s Russ’.

Russ has years of experience with Kevin’s convoluted rules and excuses about gay shit, and he knows that as soon as he woke up in Russ’ body with naked PG, Kevin convinced himself that it was Russ’ body, not Kevin’s mind, that wanted to touch, to be pressed down by his big arms. 

Russ should pull away again. He really likes PG. He’s managed to keep it together through games against the Warriors and All-Star weekend, that time they bumped into each other’s at Harden’s place in LA, Russ still feeling the pill he took in the bathroom, Kevin gaping at him, almost dropping his drink before the Instagram model he was with caught it. It’s gonna burn everything he’s rebuilt to the ground, all his careful construction, triple-doubles and nicer clothes and whatever he has with PG. But if Kevin’s gonna blame Russ’ body, Russ wants to make sure he can’t fucking forget about it, memory lingering back in his own body as he tries to deny it. 

He squeezes Kevin’s ass harder, feeling Kevin sigh into the feeling, wrap his leg around Russ and pull him in tighter. He slides his other hand to Kevin’s hair, tugs him until his neck is exposed and Russ can bite down, close enough to leaving a mark that Kevin-as-Kevin would flip. Like Russ expected, Kevin just moans louder, clutches Russ’ hip, his arm like he’s drowning. 

When Russ presses down on Kevin’s shoulder, Kevin slides to his knees, the grace and fluidity of a Finals MVP, ready to sink the winning shot. Russ murmurs, can’t not, and Kevin nuzzles his thigh at the hem of the robe, glances up at Russ. 

Their eyes meet, both of them frozen. Russ’ heart clenches, his hand soft on the back of Kevin’s neck. He wants to be mean, fuck Kevin’s mouth and make him beg for it, but his traitorous hand cups Kevin’s cheek, rubs his thumb along his cheek. Kevin kisses the inside of his wrist, and Russ aches, aches for when that meant love and security and the future, not just a bitter reminder of what Russ lost. 

The bitterness stings sharply enough to get him back on track, untying his robe so it falls open around his dick, pulling Kevin’s head in closer. Russ is caging him in, bracing one arm against the wall to hold himself up, and Kevin closes his eyes, opens his mouth. He looks blissful. 

Russ tilts his hips forward, until his dick just brushes Kevin’s bottom lip. Kevin gasps, tries to lean forward, but Russ grips Kevin’s cheek, keeps him right there. Kevin whimpers, eyes still closed, and licks the head of Russ’ dick, straining, desperate. 

The first touch lights Russ up, a spark that immediately ignites into a blaze. He loosens his grip a little, and Kevin tilts forward, sucks sweetly on the head of his dick, hums around it. Russ has to close his eyes, lean his forehead against the wall, just to keep upright. 

Kevin tongues right under the head, the spot that Russ would always suck to make him lose it, and Russ bucks his hips. Kevin swallows him down until Russ can feel his throat, and it’s addictively good, no room in Russ’ brain for anything but chasing the feeling. Russ rubs his thumb over Kevin’s mouth, feels his dick sliding in and out, and his knees almost buckle at Kevin’s satisfied little sigh vibrating along his dick. 

Russ could keep going for ages, come down his throat and stay there till he’s hard again, but even more he wants to get inside Kevin, fill him up and fuck him till he can’t deny how much he wants it. Kevin was always too scared to let himself feel that desire, pressed it down and projected onto Russ, as though a dick in his ass would stop him from being Kevin Durant. 

Russ fucked him once. It was a couple of weeks after the MVP ceremony, in Russ’ bed, late afternoon on a rare lazy day off, no meetings or sponsors or media. They’d been idly making out, and when Russ’ hand brushed Kevin’s ass, he’d jerked away and then, deliberately, back into Russ’ hand. 

They hadn’t talked about it, really: Russ had whispered okay? as he pressed his spit-slick finger against Kevin, and Kevin had nodded frantically, eyes screwed shut, hips pressing back. Russ had taken his time, knew this was a rare moment, memorized the way Kevin brokenly said Russ’ name as Russ pulled away to get lube, the tremble in his thighs as Russ pushed two fingers in. 

When Russ finally pushed Kevin’s leg up and kissed him as he slid inside, kissed all the encouragement and love and sweetness Kevin couldn’t handle hearing aloud, Kevin had cried out, a noise Russ had never heard before. Russ murmured love you, kissed his temple, but Kevin’s whole body was shaking in waves, couldn’t stop making pleading noises, had to tuck his face into Russ’ neck. Kevin came as soon as Russ touched his dick, and Russ worked him through it, kissing his slack mouth, free hand stroking up and down his side, soothing. 

Russ had come inside him, tucked two fingers right there while Kevin shuddered, eyes leaking. He didn’t stop trembling until he fell asleep, and Russ had just curled around him, protective, even though he knew he couldn’t protect Kevin from himself. 

When he woke up, it was dark out, and Kevin was gone. 

Russ pulls himself back to the present, to Kevin’s body. Kevin’s pushing himself down Russ’ dick, eyes still shut, and Russ tightens the grip of his hand around Kevin’s skull, pulls him back, hard. Kevin’s eyes fly open, looking at Russ in confusion, and Russ yanks him up off his knees, bites down, hard, on the tendon in his neck. “I’m gonna fuck you,” he tells Kevin, low and dark, just to feel him shake, pressed between Russ and the wall. 

He turns and walks towards the bedroom, hears Kevin gasp before he starts following Russ, his shallow breaths as he catches up. 

Russ doesn’t let himself look back, just pushing himself past the threshold of the bedroom, blocking everything out but the here-and-now. 

“You made the bed?” Kevin asks, reaching out for Russ, fingertips brushing the small of his back. 

“I make the bed in hotels, too,” Russ says, and feels Kevin’s fingers drop away. Russ turns, and Kevin’s looking dazed, unsure, long arms hanging awkwardly. Russ reaches out for him, and Kevin comes, gratefully, kissing Russ a little shyly. 

Russ pulls off the sweatshirt, drops his robe, stifles a giggle when Kevin almost trips getting his sweats off. Kevin looks up at him, dumb smile on his face, and Russ kisses him, relishes the feel of skin on skin. 

Once they make it to the bed, Russ flips Kevin over, knees underneath his hips. It can’t feel too much like last time; Russ can’t handle looking at his overfull eyes or giving all those soothing kisses. Kevin goes readily, boneless in Russ’ hands. 

Kevin always wanted lube, even for handjobs, and when Russ pulls open the drawer of the dark wood bedside table, there it is, lying next to some condoms. Russ grabs one, tries his very hardest not to picture about the hot girls Kevin’s been using them on. At least he’s probably not getting anyone pregnant. 

He squeezes some lube onto Kevin’s back. Ugh, it’s always so fucking messy. But Kevin makes a surprised, needy noise, arches his back, head buried in the pillows. Russ rubs his hip, slides his fingers through the lube, and carefully presses against Kevin. 

Kevin pushes back, chest heaving, and everything moves pretty fast after that. Russ knows his body can handle it, and Kevin is wordlessly begging, hands clenching and unclenching in the sheets to the rhythm of Russ’ fingers. When he slides two fingers in, presses right there, where Russ can never reach on his own, Kevin gasps out, “Russ,” reaches his hand back to grab Russ’ wrist, fingernails digging into his tendons. Russ runs his hand over Kevin’s back, kisses the bump of his spine. 

Kevin relaxes, just a hair, but when Russ strokes over it again, he can feel Kevin tense, his breath coming in unsteady pants. When he pulls his fingers out, carefully, Kevin’s hips follow his fingers, and Russ has to slide a hand to his hip, keep him in place when he rolls the condom on. 

When he pushes in, Russ feels like he’s in both bodies at once, experiencing it in stereo. He knows exactly how Kevin’s dick feels, the ache of the first moment turning imperceptibly into an endless need for moremoremore, the way it feels when he breathes out, relaxes into it. But this side is incredible too, heat and pressure pounding in his gut, every muscle tense with control and desire. 

Russ fucks him steadily, long hard strokes until Kevin’s whimpering, blanketing him with his body. He bites Kevin’s neck as he pushes in, feels Kevin whimper and his hips jerk. It’s all-consuming, and when Kevin tries to slide his hand to his dick, Russ pins it, unwilling to let it be over so soon. 

Kevin comes anyway, his knees giving out so he’s grinding against the bed, Russ’ hand curled around his throat. Russ is gonna come too in a few seconds, but Kevin, flat on the bed, trembling, reaches back and clutches him, whispers, “Wanna feel you.”

Russ kisses his shoulder blade, the back of his neck, nods helplessly. He pulls out carefully, rubbing Kevin’s side against the sudden emptiness, and doesn’t think about how gross and sticky it’ll be, how much he hates the cleanup, just yanks off the condom, pulls once, twice, and comes all over Kevin’s unmarked back. Kevin gasps with satisfaction. 

Russ wipes it off with the corner of sheet, ignoring Kevin’s unhappy whimper, then collapses on top of him, kissing his cheek and his temple, his hair. 

Russ can’t think anymore, bone-deep satisfaction swallowing him whole. Kevin squirms underneath him, and Russ slides off him and pulls him onto his side, curls around him. Kevin looks up sweetly, kisses his jaw, his neck. Their legs are tangled up, their breaths mirroring each other, and Russ just buries himself in Kevin’s smell, the warmth of the bed. He falls asleep between one breath and the next. 

*

It’s deja-vû, so obvious Russ can’t feel anything but resigned. When he wakes up, still in Kevin’s body, the bed is empty. Kevin’s gone. 

Russ yanks the robe off the floor, puts it on, catches a glimpse of Kevin’s stork legs sticking out. It looks stupid, but whatever. At least Kevin would hate it. The sweats Kevin was wearing are still on the floor; Russ hopes he trips getting on the airplane in the too-long pants he must be wearing now. 

His eyes are burning, his shoulders up by his ears. He focuses on relaxing them, steadying his blinks, as he pilots himself to the sunny, too-clean kitchen. The granite countertop is too dark for the space: what fucking clown designed this?

Russ waits for his coffee, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He didn’t expect anything else. Obviously Kevin’s excuses were bullshit, but Kevin always believes his own bullshit. He could be anywhere by now: LA, OKC, wherever he takes his post-championship victory vacations. 

Involuntarily, Russ pictures Kevin on a beach somewhere, a model stroking his tattoos, not telling him how ugly they are. Just as Russ imagines him untying her bikini, the patio door slides open, and Russ spins around, startled. 

It’s Kevin, still in the stupid sweatshirt and a pair of boxers, holding an almost-full green juice with a disgusted expression on his face. He doesn’t see Russ tucked in the corner at first, just rushes to the sink and spits out the juice. 

Russ bursts out laughing, and Kevin looks up, wild-eyed, from where he’s drinking straight from the tap, a fleck of green juice still on his chin. 

“I hate kale smoothies,” Russ says. “Actually, I hate all smoothies.”

“I got that,” Kevin says, his tongue hanging out of his mouth to air it out. 

“Want a poached egg?” Russ asks. He’s not drinking a fucking smoothie, even if Kevin’s tastebuds have been beaten into submission. 

“You know how to poach eggs?” Kevin asks, sounding impressed. 

It was a long, shitty summer, the first one after KD left. It felt like a lot, having his chef around every day, when Russ just wanted to work out and lie on the patio, redecorate his house so he didn’t have to think about getting fucked over the back of the couch every time he walked into the living room. Poached eggs were nice: you stirred the water and set a timer, and they came out the right way every time, no second-guessing. 

“Yeah,” Russ says, and then, can’t help himself, “PG loves them.” 

He gave PG some blowjobs on the road, making out in hotel beds in freezing Milwaukee, steamy Atlanta. Once, in a hotel pool, PG got him off, stifling his giggles and gasps with a hand over Russ’ mouth as Russ jerked against him, glass walls dark, their legs a ghostly midnight blue. Nothing ever happened at home, until the night before last. If Russ had stayed in his body, he probably would have made PG a poached egg, drizzled it with hot sauce the way he likes his fries. 

Kevin looks wretched, like he’s still nauseous from the smoothie. “He texted. While I was on the plane. I didn’t look.”

“Of course you looked,” Russ says, not even mad, and Kevin laughs, his shoulders coming down an inch from his ears. 

“Yeah, I did,” Kevin admits, shrugging. 

Russ doesn’t want to think about PG right now. He’s never cheated on anyone before, and thinking about it makes him feel faintly sick. He’ll figure out how to tell him he can’t keep doing stuff later, after coffee, once he’s a little more removed from fucking Kevin. He starts looking around for a pot, opening cabinets. 

“There’s a pot in —” Kevin says, then pauses. “Honestly, no fucking clue. I definitely own one.”

“What if your chef brings his own?” Russ counters, and Kevin laughs, real. 

“One time my mom made me mac and cheese,” Kevin says. 

“Did you eat it?”

“I almost didn’t and she smacked me upside the head,” Kevin says. “It was delicious. Couldn’t eat grilled chicken for three days afterwards.”

Russ finds the pot in the seventh cabinet he opens, fills it with water, puts it on to boil. There’s a moment of quiet, and Russ doesn’t try to fill it, just gets out eggs and a few small bowls, hunts around for bread and a slotted spoon. 

When Russ sets the timer and looks up, Kevin’s watching him, a weird look on his face. Russ considers about demanding what he’s thinking, but honestly, it’s seven in the morning. He’s tired. “We should watch Freaky Friday,” he says instead. 

***

When Lindsay Lohan and Jamie Lee Curtis hug, finally seeing past their differences, Russ hears a sniffle. He looks over at Kevin, exactly one couch cushion away, and sees him wiping his eyes, one tear running down his cheek. Kevin always cries about moms: he cried through half of Terminator. 

“Softie,” Russ says, but it comes out sweeter than he meant it to, and Kevin just elbows him, gentle, in the ribs. 

“You’re the softie,” Kevin says, poking at his belly under the sweatshirt. “Too much in-n-out, not enough training?” He’s grinning, and Russ feels himself grin back. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Russ tells him, and Kevin laughs. “Fine. We can work out, I know your muscles are wasting away by now.”

As soon as they get into Kevin’s home gym, muscle memory takes over. It’s weird to do exercises as Kevin, lingering soreness in his knee instead of his hand, having to ask Kevin what he’s benching now and add more weights. But their bodies spent so many years maneuvering around gyms together, with the whole team but also just them, getting to practice early and pushing themselves, pushing each other, every single day. 

He’s working hard to make sure Kevin’s body isn’t interrupted by Russ’ brain while doing dumbbell rows, doesn’t want to fuck something up, give Kevin something else to be a pissy bitch about. He finally finishes his reps, ready for the cool down, and then looks up. 

Kevin’s a foot away, sweaty, staring down at Russ intensely. Even though it’s Russ’ face, the expression’s all Kevin, the particular way his eyebrows come together and his mouth falls open. Russ is staring back at him, wanting so much, wanting everything. Wanting a world where Kevin never left. 

It’s like they’re magnets, drawing together. It would be the easiest thing in the world to pull Kevin in, make out sloppy and sweaty. Russ always found it kinda gross, but Kevin loved it, nuzzling the crease of Russ’ thigh and sucking him down before Russ could even shower. 

But then what? Russ has spent two years living in the aftermath of Kevin, and it fucking sucks. He just made it, gasping and flailing, to the riverbank: he’s not trying to dive back in. 

Instead of leaning in, giving Kevin the signal he’s angling for, Russ looks away. He’s on his back, vulnerable, so he sits up, ignores Kevin’s offered hand in his peripheral vision. “I gotta shower,” he says, and can hear Kevin gulp. “I’ll find a guest room.”

Kevin draws his hand back. “Sure,” he says, sounding unsteady. 

The door’s only a few feet away, but the walk feels miles long, Russ forcing himself not to look back or hesitate. Once he’s out the door, he half bolts, opening doors until he finds a bedroom with a bathroom inside, neat enough that Kevin’s probably never been in it.

He showers as quickly as he can. He tries to close his eyes, but it just makes the feel of skin under his hand more vivid, so he opens them, reads the back of the shampoo bottle while he rinses off. There’s a robe hanging off the bathroom door — thanks, Kevin’s decorator — and Russ pulls it on, lies on the bed and tries to catch his breath, think about what the fuck he’s going to do about any part of his life.

There’s a knock on the door, a hard couple raps. “Yeah?” Russ calls, and Kevin opens the door enough for him to see his face.

“Uh,” Kevin says. “My mom is calling. I don’t want to stress her out and not pick up. Would you just talk to her for a bit?”

Russ loves Wanda. They’d get dinner with her when she was in town, she’d send Russ Christmas cards with nice messages about how God was on his path, and he’d send Kevin good shit to buy her for her birthday. She never knew about what they were, but she loved Kevin all-encompassingly, loved Russ for taking care of Kevin. 

Russ nods, and Kevin hands him a vibrating iPad, Wanda’s face on it. Russ swipes it open, trying to ignore where Kevin is awkwardly leaning on the doorway.

“Baby!” Wanda says, delighted. “How are you! I’m sorry I couldn’t stay overnight after the parade, Muffin hasn’t been feeling good and I had to get home. I hope you weren’t too lonely.”

Russ glances at Kevin, who’s in the doorway, cringing, then looks back at Wanda. “Of course not,” he says. “The parade was great.”

Wanda clucks. “I just worry about you in that big house all by yourself, honey.”

“Mom,” Russ says, letting a little of his irritation with Kevin bleed in, “I’m fine. I just won back-to-back championships.”

Her face draws together, and Russ knows he fucked up a little. Kevin’s grimace makes it even more obvious. “Don’t be rude. Winning championships is nice, but it doesn’t matter if you’re still miserable and fighting with your team.”

Russ knows Kevin’s had some dumb dust-ups with the Warriors, but miserable? What is she talking about? “I’m happy, Mom,” he says, but he can feel a slight lump in his throat. Fucking Kevin.

She hems and haws, but starts telling him about Muffin and the vet, when he’s gonna fly out this summer, her plans for her business. Russ tries not to commit to anything, just nods and smiles, says yes and I love you a lot.

Towards the end of the call, when Russ has relaxed a little bit, Wanda says, “Did Russ text?”

It startles him, hearing his own name out of her mouth. There’s a pause, and Russ manages, “Why would he? He’s still bitter I wanted to actually win, not just die in OKC.”

He can hear Kevin gasp, and he refuses to look up from the iPad. Wanda’s narrowed her eyes again. “Don’t talk about him like that. He was your best friend, and you’re not going to find someone else like that. I know you still miss him.”

“Mom, there’s plenty of better point guards. I play with one.” It feels almost good, to say this shit, slicing himself open instead of letting it fester.

“Kevin, it’s not about basketball, and this isn’t how you are. You should reach out. Real friends are hard to find, especially when you’re a star. The Warriors are nice boys but you need someone who’s there for you, not number 35.”

Russ swallows around the stone in his throat. Kevin’s still there, frozen at the edge of the door, staring at Russ. “Gotta go, Mom,” he manages. “Love you. Talk soon.”

“Remember, sweetie, when there’s hope, there’s possibilities.”

Russ sees Kevin mouthing along with the words and rolling his eyes, and he has to stifle a hysterical giggle. 

As soon as she says bye, Russ hits the end button, draws a deep breath as silently as he can. When he finally looks up, Kevin looks shaky, broken-open. Russ is sure he wants to run, but where is there to go? 

“I actually need you to Facetime someone for me, too,” Russ tells Kevin. This shit’s already a mess; he might as well break a few more eggs.

Kevin nods, grateful for the instruction, and Russ pats the bed next to him, digs his phone out of his pile of workout clothes. Kevin hasn’t showered, sweat drying on his back and temples. It’s fucking gross, but it’s not Russ’ house. 

They’re sitting on opposite sides of the king bed, awkward, and Russ forces himself to just blast through it. “You need to call PG and tell him we can’t keep doing stuff. Don’t, like, mention you, and don’t be a freak.”

“You don’t want to text him?” Kevin asks, honestly confused.

Russ dropped his phone into a sink full of water, when he got the text about the Warriors. He didn’t replace it for two weeks after, because the thought of iPhones made him want to puke. 

He steels himself, trying to encase his heart and voice in ice. “I don’t want to dump someone like I’m canceling an Uber, no.”

“It’s just — sometimes people want space. To process,” Kevin says, feebly. 

“I know you fucking wanted space, Kevin, and you got it, but I’m not a psycho. Christ. PG deserves better than this but at least I’ll show my face.”

Kevin just nods, and Russ realizes how fast his breath is coming, how close he is to saying, _You broke my heart. _He needs to get a grip. 

“Just tell him that he’s great, you just thought you could do something more serious, but you can’t. You don’t want anything to fuck up the season.”

Kevin is listening intently, like Russ is a coach describing a new drill, and Russ feels a pang of tenderness. He’s waiting for more instruction, but when Russ doesn’t say anything more, he says, “Okay. I can do that.”

Russ unlocks his phone and pulls up FaceTime, hands it over. The room is very quiet, and the bed feels smaller than it should, both of them with their legs out long, like it’s a regular weekend, working out and fucking around later, arguing about what’s for dinner. 

The phone starts ringing, and Russ moves to the foot of the bed, so the camera can’t catch him if Kevin lets it tilt. Kevin looks up, panicked, and Russ rests a hand on his ankle despite himself, feels Kevin relax. 

“Russ?” Russ hears PG say from the phone, trying to be nonchalant, and Russ’ gut churns with guilt. 

“Hey,” Kevin says. “Sorry I haven’t been around.”

“It’s okay,” PG says, quickly, softly. “Are you feeling better?” God, he’s sweet. If Russ was smarter, he’d forget about Kevin for real, take what PG wants to give him, go to Disneyland and wake up to his sunny smile, stop ripping the stitches out of his heart. 

But Russ has never been able to want what’s good for him, what’s easy. He wants the inward curve of Kevin’s arm right underneath his shoulder, his stupid beard, the way he gets inside Russ like no one else.

“Yeah,” Kevin says, and pauses. He looks totally lost. “Um. PG. You’re really great, and what we have is. Great.” There’s an ominous pause, and Russ wishes he was the one doing this, that he could see PG’s face. “But I. With basketball? I just don’t think we should. Do this anymore.”

“What the fuck?” PG says, stunned. “Seriously?”

Russ expects Kevin to look away, to bolt, but Kevin keeps his eyes on the screen. “I’m really sorry,” he says, and it sounds sincere. “I should have talked to you before.”

“Was last night just -- nothing?”

“No,” Kevin says. “It was real. I just. I can’t be what you deserve.”

It feels unbearably intimate, Kevin saying all the thing Russ wanted to hear. He wants to leave, but he’s trapped, doesn’t want to make a sound. 

PG laughs bitterly. “Thanks for telling me, I guess.”

“I still -- text me when you’re ready, okay? I really. You’re my teammate. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Okay, Russ,” PG says. “I gotta go.”

He hangs up, and Kevin looks wrung out. “Thanks,” Russ says, and Kevin startles, like he forgot Russ was there for a second.

“Sorry I fucked you guys up,” Kevin says. “He seems -- like a good dude.”

Russ doesn’t want to keep looking at his face, doesn’t want to move away. He slides back up the bed and kisses Kevin instead.

Kevin grabs his face, gasps into his mouth, as soon as their lips touch. He’s clutching at Russ, and Russ feels like he’s lost at sea, swimming through the depths. Russ rolls his hips, and Kevin murmurs, slides his hand to the back of Russ’ head. Russ crawls into his lap, pressing Kevin against the headboard, and Kevin murmurs, “Russ.” 

Russ wants to crawl inside him and never stop touching, feels completely out of control. Listening to Kevin say that shit shook Russ to the foundations, tipped over all his careful balances, and he’s hanging off the edge of a cliff, fingertips slipping off one by one. He kisses Kevin, bites his lip, lets Kevin tilt his head and pull him even closer. Kevin’s hands are roaming, almost frantic, and Russ just doesn’t want to think anymore, ten minutes of peace inside his brain.

He knows how he could get it: slide down to Kevin’s dick, suck him off, Kevin’s hand heavy on the back of his neck. And Russ would like it, wants it, but he knows he just wants to pretend it’s real, that Kevin said sorry to him, doesn’t want to lose him. But it’s not real, and Russ won’t let himself do that, just kisses the taste of sweat off Kevin’s neck, pushes his shirt up with one hand.

Kevin shoves Russ’ robe off, and Russ pulls out Kevin’s dick, jerking him off, hard and fast and perfect. Kevin kisses him, open-mouthed and sweet, and Russ runs a thumb over the head of his dick, just to feel his reaction. Kevin’s hands are still roaming, down Russ’ ass and around his thighs, his ribs, still the best thing Russ has ever felt. 

Neither of them are in a hurry to get off, and the pace slows down, off-day sex. It feels unbearably good to kiss Kevin, feel his dick jerk and suck on his bottom lip. Kevin’s cradling Russ so there’s no space between them. It feels like it could last forever. The white sheets are clean and bright in the morning light, warmth filling Russ up to the brim. 

Eventually Kevin’s dick starts jerking, his whispered Russ, Russ getting more desperate, and Russ takes pity on him, sucks his own fingers into his mouth and then wraps them around Kevin, tightens his grip just right. Kevin groans, slides his hand to Russ’ dick, but there’s not enough room, hands bumping awkwardly. Kevin pulls Russ’ wrist away, wraps his hand around both their dicks, sloppy and juvenile and so good Russ can’t breathe. Kevin’s still kissing him as Russ gasps into his mouth, overwhelmed by all the sensations. Kevin reaches over to grab a pump of lube, but his arms can’t reach, and he accidentally tips them over.

Russ starts to laugh, breathless underneath Kevin, and Kevin does too. Kevin roots around on the side table before he realizes there’s nothing there, licks his fingers sloppily and rewraps his hand around their dicks. It’s even better, slick skin on skin, and Russ comes, still euphoric. Kevin doesn’t let go of his dick, works him through it, scoops some come to wrap around them, and Russ groans at the overstimulation. It’s enough to push Kevin over the edge, his whole body landing on top of Russ, and Russ loves it, even Kevin’s sweaty gym clothes.

They don’t quite fall asleep, just lay there, dazed, luxuriating in the contact. 

“Congrats,” Russ says, after their pants have turned to quiet breaths. Kevin makes a confused noise, and before Russ can chicken out, he makes himself say, “On your rings.”

Russ keeps his eyes shut, but he can feel Kevin pull away to stare at him. “Thanks, Russ,” Kevin says eventually, and Russ can feel his smile against Russ’ cheek when he ducks back down.

***

They peel away from each other and shower off, rewatch a March Madness game and talk about rookies. It feels almost normal, both of them skating on the surface. Russ holds back some of the shit he wants to say, and he can see Kevin do the same, neither of them wanting to break the fragile peace. It’s all normal, until he gets a text from his assistant, reminding him of his flight to Los Angeles tomorrow morning. 

He’s sitting on the couch as Kevin pretends to know how to heat up his meals competently -- Russ can’t watch the process without being a bitch, so he’s staying out of it. “Oh shit,” he says, and Kevin appears in the doorway, looking concerned. “I need to be in LA tomorrow for some brand stuff. God. If anyone asks you about aesthetic stuff, just choose the opposite of what you want to say.”

Kevin’s forehead wrinkles while he processes that, and then he manages, “Hey.”

Russ has already moved on, texting his assistant to get him a flight from Oakland instead, giving no details about why or how his plans changed. He can’t cancel the meeting, too many bigwigs coming, but he’ll just do damage control after, pick Kevin’s outfit for him so at least he looks the part.

***

There’s an awkward moment at the door the next morning, right before the driver comes to pick him up. Kevin’s wearing what Russ laid out, a new black and white button down and tight black jeans, ripped at the thigh. Kevin buttoned it up all the way, and Russ steps in close, unbuttons each button deliberately until all that’s being covered is his belly button, his hips. He can hear Kevin’s harsh pants of breath, the quiver in his stomach as he holds himself absolutely still. Russ lets himself brush his fingers against Kevin’s stomach as he unbuttons the final one, just to see the tiniest tremble. 

“Russ,” Kevin breathes out, reaching his hand up to Russ’ wrist. There’s dust motes floating in the shaft of morning light, Kevin’s fresh post-shower smell suffusing the air. They’re frozen for a moment, until Russ gets a buzz, telling him the driver is here, and he steps away. 

“Wait,” Kevin says, and when Russ dares to look up, the naked want on Kevin’s face is terrifying. “I need.” There’s a long pause, and Russ can’t breathe. “Your phone.”

“Oh,” Russ says. He yanks his phone out of his pocket, holds it out. Tries not to clench his fingers too tight. Kevin fumbles getting his own phone out of his tight jeans pocket. “The pockets are decorative,” Russ tells him. 

“Fuck off,” Kevin says, but he’s smiling, just barely. They swap phones, and Russ steps back, lets Kevin open the door. Tries not to stare at his ass — Russ worked hard on that ass, but still. 

Once the door is closed, Russ puts Kevin’s phone down, tries to pretend he’ll leave well enough alone. 

***

He makes it two hours. He paces around Kevin’s empty house, looking out onto the breathtaking, isolating view, doing pull-ups off his stupid spiral staircase. He goes outside, shoots fifty threes as he watches the fog creep over the city below. The view is wide, but there’s none of the endless possibility of LA, imposing mountains and moving oceans; it feels like an apocalypse movie, like Kevin’s holed up here hiding from the mad world. 

The whole time, the phone is just sitting there, calling to him, promising him at least an understanding of what Russ didn’t have, why Kevin left. He knows it’s fucked up, but Kevin’s had the same passcode for five years. Kevin’s probably looking at his shit right now, hopefully getting uncomfortably horny at those selfies, not reading his maudlin texts with James. 

Propelled by the image of Kevin scrolling through his texts with James, he slides the phone open, starts with photos. He’ll find one pic of a hot girl, and that’s it, it’ll cure him, remind him of what Kevin wants to want. 

But there aren’t any pics of girls. There’s screenshots of stupid memes, training schedules, his mom and her dog, photos of the bay from the roof deck. Some selfies, but they’re not even that thotty, Kevin’s endless dark eyes peeking out in each one. A screenshot of Russ. 

Russ swipes the app closed, opens his Instagram. There’s a pic of a model in a bikini within the first ten posts of his feed, but when he swipes to his DMs, they’re sparse, mostly high school friends, not a girl in sight. Kevin never fucked a girl while he was with Russ, but he messaged plenty, just to prove to himself that he could, as soon as he stopped there'd be girls gagging for it. Where are they? He finally sees one girl, @ashaaaaa_babe, but when he opens the thread, Kevin never responded. 

Maybe Kevin’s publicist crushed one too many blind items and made him keep it off insta. He opens Kevin’s messages:

Mom  
Love you honey!!!!!!  
Paul trainer  
Reps 12/15/12  
Steve Kerr  
I’m proud of you, son.  
Warriors Group Chat  
You have left the chat  
Annie publicist  
Call me back about magazine options!  
240-989-3943  
Yo dude congrats on the second ring!!! Hit me up if you ever wanna chill in MD  
Layla assistant  
Thanks for giving me time off for family vacation! Congrats!!  
Family group chat  
Muffy’s not feeling well  
Rayvonne  
Call me back bro  
512-342-3324  
Bro remember when we were in Stats together…..now ur back to back finals champ crazy how time flies  
James Harden  
Nice job KD when u gonna call russ

It’s fucking bleak. 

He tries to put Kevin’s phone down, walk away. He manages to get through a workout, but he can’t stop thinking about the dull emptiness of Kevin’s life stretching out before him, stupid fights and texts from his trainer and his awful giant house. 

He turns on the TV, but the phone is on the coffee table, a siren song. The fog has settled around the house, and it's making Russ feel caged in, jumpy, just flat gray outside the windows. He reaches towards the cold metal-and-glass coffee table, tries not to think about the house in OKC, back when they both lived there, soft cashmere blankets and warm wood, controllers and art books and free shit from Nike spilling over the sides. When he opens the phone, he lets himself go through it systematically, opening every app in order, scrolling through until he finds. Something. 

It’s boring at first: Kevin’s fitness tracker, the NBA app, subreddits about Red Dead Redemption and going paleo. He glances at Kevin’s twitter alts, but there’s nothing juicy there, either, just dumb spats with randos about Kevin’s legacy, whether he’s a traitor. There’s one thread about whether Russ is overrated, Kevin pulling out stat after stat from Russ’ last season. Spotify playlists with dumb emo titles; Pusuit of Happiness on his heavy rotation. 

He opens up his Notes app, idly. Russ doesn’t really use his for much: he texts style ideas to his stylist and basketball ideas to his trainers, keeps his feelings in his head. But there’s 478 notes, with titles like Pacers offense and Sunday night and Thoughts. He opens the ones that look interesting. He sees one titled It’s the warriors. Technically, Russ only read the text once, but it was burned into his memory regardless, and he opens it apprehensively. 

His first thought is that the note is long-- longer that Russ expected. It starts with that text, and Russ figures maybe Kevin was drafting all his stuff in one place, texts to coaches and teammates and shit. But the next line is a message that he remembers getting once he finally replaced his phone, right before he blocked Kevin’s number: _very funny with the cupcakes but no hard feelings right? _

No fucking hard feelings. 

He keeps reading. There’s casual invites to dinner, memes about the Knicks, dumb jokes about his assistant that make Russ laugh, just a little. There’s a gentle rag on one of Russ’ outfits, YouTube links, a screenshot of a Jordan vs. LeBron tweet. It’s agressively normal, as though Kevin really thought he could just leave and everything would stay the same. Russ can feel his chest tightening as he reads: how could Kevin pretend so effectively? Was the team, Russ, so easily disposable to him?

After a little bit of scrolling, there’s less memes and dumb shit, more shit about plays. Must be after the season started.

_Do what you want? Lmao after you got so pissed at me okay dude whatever_

_51 points triple double damn russ you gunnin for mvp?_

_Nice dunk in the third bro_

_Yo if you want to fight with me let’s do it, stop chickening out on the court_

_Heyyyyy ist late i wodner what ur up to_

_All star weekens coming up u wanna get dinner or something?_

_Yo rehab sucks without u lol_

_3-0 in the nba finals holy shit. Not even a text alright dude_

_Mvp man you fucking balled out you deserve it. Weird im not there you finally fucking did it _

There’s a lot more, games from the last few months, bitching about Draymond. A long block of text catches his eye, the last thing in the note.

_ Hey dude i finally did it. Finals mvp two years in a row two champoissnships you know the rings are lighter than youd think. Its weird doing this without you bro like i still expect to see you on the court with me sometimes. I dont regret it but i miss you you know. I guess you dont you still don’t wanna talk. The parade was so loud but u kno sometimes you feel like you’re not really there at all even tho it’s everything uve ever dreamed of.always thought ud be here _

Russ tries to catch his breath. He feels sliced open, cleanly cut in half like a watermelon on a hot summer day, scooped out in big spoonfuls. It’s not what he thought he wanted from Kevin, a real apology, asking to come back so Russ could tell him no. But it’s sharper, sweeter, more real: Kevin, playing the kind of basketball he always wanted to play, fulfilling his dreams, still thinking about Russ. Russ fell in love with Kevin on the court, first, with his drive and his talent, his all-encompasing need to be the best. He never wanted Kevin to stop trying to be the best, he just wanted to be there with him.

But Kevin off the court was always more vulnerable, a little more hidden. Russ knew that stupid cupcake instagram was a dick move, because Kevin was soft, and Russ teased that out, loved it, gave him a space in a soft bed for soft smiles. And now Kevin doesn’t have anywhere for that: nowhere in his sterile house, his sterile life, to be lonely, nowhere but a note of texts he doesn’t send.

Russ turned it into a matter of principle, not giving Kevin an inch of forgiveness. Russ figured he didn’t deserve it, didn’t even want it, and that initial burn of hurt calcified into something heavy and solid, that sat right in the center of Russ, right beneath his solar plexus. It was easier to turn away from him, refuse to think about him, to carry that lump around with him everywhere, in every game, pushing him towards every triple double, away from Kevin’s sometimes-hopeful glances. He constructed an icy shield to surround himself, and it was hard, but brittle: getting that lob from Kevin in the All-Star game almost shattered it. It felt so easy, so right, and Russ knew Kevin would always be his weak spot, the chink in his armor. And then Kevin acted like it was nothing, like Russ was any teammate, and Russ knew he could never, ever feel that way. The best he could hope for was to freeze himself solid, not let anything chip away at the block of ice surrounding his broken heart.

But Kevin missed him. The whole time, Kevin missed him, and Russ missed him too, as hard as he tried not to, and it just suddenly feels so fucking stupid. Yeah, the text was shitty as hell, but Russ wants to yell at him about it, not ignore him forever. He remembers fighting with his best friend in second grade, not talking to him for a month because he cheated at Horse, the relief he felt when they were partners in gym class again, could start talking without either of them saying sorry. These past two years have sucked: fuck it.

He calls Kevin before he can talk himself out of it, and Kevin picks up right away.

“Hey,” Kevin says, words tripping over themselves, and Russ can hear now how much Kevin wants the convo to keep going, how desperate he is for Russ’ attention. How intoxicating that feels. 

“Hey,” Russ replies. “I just wanted to say—“

“I’m flying back to Oakland,” Kevin interrupts. 

“Right now?” Russ asks, a little surprised. The meeting just finished. 

“I’m in the car,” Kevin admits, and Russ nods, shaky. He’s got to do this, and when Kevin’s with him, it’s all too easy to kiss him instead. 

“I just wanted to tell you, it’s my fault.” Kevin makes a questioning noise, but Russ steamrolls through it. “This whole. Swapping thing. I wished you were with me,” he admits, but Kevin starts talking again. 

“I wished you were here. I wished I’d won with you.” Russ’ breath catches, his chest aching. He’s gripping his thigh so tightly it hurts, frozen on the line. 

“I miss you,” spills out of both of them at the same time. 

Everything goes black for a second. When he opens his eyes, he’s in his LA driver’s car, red dice hanging off the mirror, buttery leather interiors. He looks down: his hand, his skin peeking through the rips of his jeans. “Kevin?” he asks, into the phone he’s still holding. 

“Russ,” Kevin says, his voice cracking a little. God, Russ missed hearing Kevin say his name. “Russ.”

*

The flight back is disorienting. Russ was only in Kevin’s body for a few days, but his balance is off as he sits down, center of gravity not where he expected. The fifty-minute flight feels like ages, nothing to do but wonder if, even after all of this, Kevin will still bolt. Russ’ phone has a bunch of apps open — Russ can’t believe Kevin still doesn’t close them when he’s done. The photos app is open to a shirtless pic of Russ, turquoise sweats slung low over his hips, v of his hips shadowed. Russ smirks, satisfied. 

He stalks off the plane, trying to banish his uncertainty, wondering if Kevin sent his driver. He’s looking at his phone when someone brushes their hand against him, and he looks up, startled, ready to fight.

It’s Kevin, too-big hoodie draped almost to his eyes, wide-eyed stare penetrating Russ instantly. Their bodies are instantly locked in orbit with each other, Russ spinning towards him like it’s a finals game. “Hey,” Russ manages.

Kevin’s searching his face for something when they hear a phone shutter go off. Kevin’s face immediately shuts closed, and Russ can feel himself gearing up for the old, everlasting fight. “Let’s go,” he says, already drained of all that boundless hope.

Kevin doesn’t move, sets himself like he’s taking a free throw, then pulls Russ in for a hug, a real one. It’s so warm, Russ’ nose tucked right at the juncture of Kevin’s sloping shoulder, his loping arms wrapped right around Russ’ body. The flood of memories, scents and sensations and bottomless need, pummel him, and Russ gasps, just a little, into Kevin’s skin. Neither of them say anything, until Russ pulls back, nods.

***

It’s quiet for the first part of the car ride, until Russ realizes this is the perfect place to have the fight he wants to have. Kevin can’t walk away, can’t fuck him to distract him.

“Do you regret anything,” Russ demands, as Kevin whistles tunelessly to his playlist. The tinny sound stops immediately, and Russ stares at him. Kevin keeps his eye on the road.

“Do you want me to pretend I didn’t want to win?” Kevin asks, and Russ lets out an aggrieved sigh. He’s such a little bitch.

“Answer the questions, asshole.”

“I didn’t mean for you to hate me. I didn’t want you to.” Kevin opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, but he doesn’t, just merges seamlessly into the left lane.

“Answer the fucking question,” Russ tells him, mulish.

“I. What do you want to hear? You know I missed you.”

Russ turns away from Kevin, stares at the hills in the distance. He’s not going to give in. Kevin can use his fucking brain if he wants to.

“I never thought you’d stop talking to me,” Kevin says, low, words tumbling out. “We were. Russ, we were us, y’know? Why would it matter what team I was on.”

Russ grips his thigh, out of the range of Kevin’s peripheral vision, the only movement he’ll allow himself.

“The Warriors felt like brothers, all together. It seemed fun, like we could win, have a good time, not be responsible for the whole city. But like, you were Russ. We’d still be. Y’know.”

“You thought you could just throw me aside like a fucking Insta ho, and I’d still come crawling back for your dick?”

“No,” Kevin says, shaken, looking away from the road to Russ’ face. Russ hates himself for cracking, for giving up his hand so easily. “I was. I didn’t know how to tell you. You’re so -- you’re so loyal, and you expect that from other people, y’know? You never take the easy way out. You’ll stick it out forever, but I don’t wanna get crucified just for playing the best basketball I can.”

Kevin takes a wet breath in. Russ wonders idly if they’re gonna crash. It’d be a fitting end to the story.

“Anyway,” Kevin says. “I texted you, yeah, but I figured I’d see you soon. We could talk about it, figure it out. We weren’t just teammates, why would it matter that much.”

“You’re an asshole,” Russ tells him, knowing at least that much. “It mattered because it’s us. We were the Thunder and you fucking abandoned me.”

Usually, Kevin wouldn’t concede that point, would object, but he just takes another wet breath in, merges over towards his exit. There’s a lot of cars, and he doesn’t say anything until they’re on a street of fancy houses, off the freeway. “I’m sorry,” he says, hands gripping the wheel tight.

Russ’ traitorous body is overfull, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut. It’s what he’s wanted for so, so long, and he’s choking on it, on years of pushed-down desperation. Kevin rolls down Russ’ window, just enough for him to get some fresh air, slides one hand to Russ’ knee, tentative.

“I’m sorry I blocked you,” Russ says, and Kevin lets out a snotty laugh, wipes his face.

“You’re not,” he says, and Russ shrugs.

“Sorta sorry,” he amends, and Kevin takes a left into his driveway, squeezes Russ’ knee. He puts in the code: the date he signed with the Longhorns, just like always. 

He puts the car in park, sliding into the stupid garage of his stupid house, but neither of them move. “Do you regret anything?” Kevin asks, quiet, looking out the window, almost at Russ.

“I wanted to call you every day,” Russ admits. “I never stopped wanting you. I couldn’t. I couldn’t regret anything without everything crumbling to pieces, but it never got easier.”

Kevin smiles, hopeful and a little shy. “Are you gonna unblock me now?”

“Nah,” Russ says, but he’s smiling as Kevin leans in for a kiss. It’s bright, shining, the only fireworks he’ll ever need.

***

Once they get in the house, Kevin looks a little more nervous, like all the glass and grey is pulling the certainty out of him. Russ stops at the back of the groupie-fucking couch and leans against it, looks up at Kevin, luxuriating in the feeling of the particular angle of his neck. Kevin looks him, up and down, openly hungry, and Russ preens under the attention, can’t help himself. But when Kevin takes two big steps towards Russ, bracketing his Russ’ hips with his hands, Russ swallows. He’s not just going to let Kevin fuck him and pretend it’s not gay.

Kevin’s looking down at him, his mouth parted and his breath hot. Russ wants to be swallowed up, but when he brings his hand up to Kevin’s shoulder, he clenches down. “Did you like when I fucked you?”

Kevin startles, his hands flexing on Russ’ hips. Russ refuses to look away, won’t let Kevin off the hook for this.

There’s a long pause, a swallow. Russ hears the fridge kick on, the quiet hum of Kevin’s robot house chugging along without him. “It fucks me up,” Kevin admits. “I don’t -- I don’t know how you do it every time. You fuck me up.”

“Good,” Russ says, viciously satisfied.

Kevin kisses him, and Russ stops trying to control his neediness, just lets it happen. It feels so good to be back in his body, feels even better to be feeling Kevin against him.

Russ wraps his legs around Kevin’s hips, and Kevin murmurs, lifts Russ ass a little higher. But the movement unbalances Russ, and he tips over the back of the couch, yanking Kevin down with him. Kevin pulls Russ to the side, just in time, Russ’ head landing on the edge of the couch instead of falling off the side of the cushion. Russ laughs, and Kevin does to, almost incredulous, edging on hysterical. 

“Even your couch is uncomfortable,” Russ complains, the stiff white leather hard against his head, and Kevin laughs again, bites down Russ’ shoulder as he rubs his dick against Russ’ tangled legs. 

“I’ll get any couch you want after this,” Kevin promises, and Russ runs his hand down Kevin’s back. 

“Can’t even make out on it,” Russ huffs, grabbing Kevin’s ass, and Kevin hisses, breath coming out of his teeth.

“You’re doing a decent job,” Kevin says, his hips jerking.

Russ lets his hands grab a little harder, and Kevin gives him open-mouthed kisses, Russ feeling him panting against his skin. It’s softer than Russ would have guessed, and Russ doesn’t try to push it away, just sinks into it like he can’t sink into the fucking couch.

When Kevin starts unbuttoning his jeans, Russ shivers gently under Kevin. “Bed?” Kevin asks, and Russ swallows.

“For what?” Russ asks, and Kevin kisses him a little desperately.

“I need you,” Kevin admits, and Russ nods, every thought collapsing into grateful need.

They stumble down the hallway, and Russ pushes Kevin up against a patch of sunshine in the hallway. Kevin opens his fists for Russ, hands reaching out, but Russ steps back out of range. Kevin’s skin is glowing -- Russ has to try to make him keep up with the routine Russ has been using -- and his tattoos are spreading from his sleeves, his mouth soft as his eyes shine. Russ hasn’t seen him like this since that last morning, soft and open, glowing in the morning light, and he knows no one else has, either. Kevin is Russ’, no matter what rings he wears.

“What?” Kevin says, his hand nipping into Russ’ side.

“You look good,” Russ tells him.

Kevin stares, not as immediately happy as Russ would expect. He pulls Russ in more strongly, tucks his face into Russ’ neck, bending himself in half to be there. His hands clutch at the small of Russ’ back, and his breath is wet. He pulls Russ up, and Russ wraps his legs around Kevin instinctively, breathes Kevin’s sweet smell in as Kevin presses him against the wall. 

“Bed,” Kevin says, low and rough, and grabs Russ’ ass as he pushes to the bedroom. When Kevin dumps him down, he remembers waking up here only two days ago, how furious he was to be plunged back into Kevin’s life. He can’t breathe for a second, scared that he’ll wake up again and it’ll all be gone, slip through his fingers. As he kisses Kevin desperately, he shoves Kevin’s shirt off, needing the press of skin on skin. Kevin doesn’t want to break the kiss, and Russ has to whine, push Kevin away so he can yank it off. As soon as Kevin’s shirt is off and untangled, he pounces back on Russ, cradling his cheek in his giant hand. 

Kevin’s back is broad and warm, his sigh so satisfying as Russ runs his nails down the length of it. “C’mon,” Kevin begs, and Russ smirks, digs his nails in a little harder until Kevin’s hips jerk. 

Kevin reaches over, grabs the lube from the bedside table and shoves it into Russ’ hand. “Jesus, Kevin,” Russ breathes, and Kevin whines. 

“Clothes off,” Russ says, breaths coming short, and Kevin nods, shimmies off his sweats and slides down to peel off Russ’ jeans. He huffs as they won’t quite pull off Russ’ thighs, and Russ runs a hand over his head, sweet. 

Once they’re naked, Russ pulls Kevin back onto him, so Kevin’s knees settle around Russ’ hips. Russ pumps lube into his hand, and breathes deeply, Kevin shaking above him. He wants Kevin above him, fully there, fully present, all his.

As soon as Russ touches him, Kevin gasps out a sob, falling onto his forearms. He kisses Russ’ ears, his mouth slack, as Russ brushes his finger against Kevin, slow and careful.

When Russ pushes his finger into Kevin, Kevin murmurs out an incomprehensible word, and Russ brings his other hand to Kevin’s arm, strokes up and down all that defined muscle. It’s not the same as the last time, but Russ can’t think about how it’s different, can just feel how Kevin’s surrounding him, the way he has given himself completely over to Russ.

With two fingers in, Russ crooks them just right, until he can feel Kevin’s dick desperately leaking onto his stomach, his hips making little circles. “Babe,” Russ breathes, and Kevin gasps, pushing back onto Russ’ fingers. 

Russ could finger him forever, test all the ways his hips move and his breathing changes, but Kevin’s trembles have turned into full-body shakes, and wrenches out “Please,” right into Russ’ ear. Russ nods as he kisses him, angling his hips up as Kevin hitches down a little, that first moment of impossible stretch filling the endless space between breaths. But Kevin takes a shaky breath in and a long one out, sinks a little, his hips coming down inch by inch, breath by breath. Russ opens his eyes to see Kevin’s eyes brimming with tears as he hovers, unsteady, over Russ. Russ pushes himself up to kiss him, and he can feel the tears run down Kevin’s cheek, a salty taste in the kiss. Russ feels like he’s been punched in the chest, so full of love and care, this miracle he thought was forever out of reach. 

The pace is slow and steady, more rocking against each other than anything else, Kevin unwilling to lose even a second of closeness. Russ can’t want anything more, anything but this, always. 

The narrative gets lost in his head, replaced by sensations: how tight Kevin is, the feel of his shaky abs against Russ, Kevin’s face against the side of his neck as he silently sobs. The softness of the sheets, the play of light on Kevin’s cheekbones. The sweat of their thighs pushing together.

When he finally reaches for Kevin’s dick, Kevin sobs out, “Russ, Russ.” Russ only gets a few strokes in before Kevin’s coming, clenching around Russ as Russ keeps his hand moving, slow and steady. Kevin collapses on his chest after, and Russ groans, needing to get off, overwhelmed already. He uses his hip to flip them over, and Kevin smiles up at him, teethy, puffy-eyed, stupid, gorgeous. His. He fucks into Kevin a couple of times, harder and faster, as Kevin runs his fingers through Russ’ hair, rubbing his thumb behind his ear, until Russ comes, shaking as he spills into Kevin.

He tries to pull out, and Kevin whines, kissing him sloppily, until Russ pushes two fingers in, curls them until Kevin relaxes around him. 

They’re barely breathing normally again when Russ’ phone starts vibrating aggressively, in the back pocket of his jeans where they’re kicked onto the floor. He tries to ignore it, but it doesn’t stop, just one long continuous drone. He slides his fingers out of Kevin, squeezing his thigh for comfort, and leans over to pick up the phone with his clean hand, silence it. It’s a Facetime from James, and when he hits decline, he sees three texts, two calls, and another missed FaceTime. The phone starts buzzing again, almost instantly, and Kevin swipes it open. Russ is still blinking in surprise when James’ face shows up on the screen, dumb grin as big as ever.

“Russ! What the fuck happened to you, bro, Kawhi told me you dumped PG? On FaceTime? Where the fuck are you, did some supervillian kidnap you? Are you doing ayahuasca without me? You promised me we’d do that together!” Russ is momentarily stunned by all the bullshit coming out of James’ mouth, still sex-stupid. 

Kevin tugs the phone out of Russ’ hand, and Russ lets him, figures he’s just gonna hang up. But Kevin turns it towards him, and James screeches, like a fucking teen at a Taylor Swift concert when she starts singing “Mine.” “Hey, Harden,” Kevin says, low and slow, still sex-dumb himself. “We’re kinda busy right now, but Russ’ll call you back later, yeah?”

“Biiiiiiiiitch,” James breathes out, delighted. They’re both shirtless, Russ’ shoulder overlapping Kevin’s on the screen. It couldn’t be clearer what they’re busy with. James knew about them, of course he did, but Kevin never admitted it. Russ was always a dirty little secret. “I’m getting the full rundown! Every detail, including what his dick’s like now! I can’t believe you’d do this to me!”

“Bye, James,” Russ says, a giggle running through his voice. Kevin kisses him, and Russ gives himself over, messy like he’s never let himself be before. The sun is shining, James is screeching, and it feels like a basketball falling cleanly into the basket, all swoosh. Falling back into place.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much to grace and molly for helping me write this entire thing, and allison for, as always, coming up with the perfect ending. couldn't have done it without them. 
> 
> obviously every russ outfit is based on a real one (besides the robe, which is only a dream)


End file.
